


Busy Days, Busy Daze

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Fever February [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:32:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: [FEVER FEBRUARY - DAY 9: HIDING THE HEAT]Usually, it's magisters who help their trainees around.But when your magister is sick, you have to help them, right?





	Busy Days, Busy Daze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taylor_tut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/gifts).



> Written for Fever February!  
> https://mugenthesickfic.tumblr.com/post/170469673461/introducing-fever-february
> 
> This one is heavily inspired and a not-so-faithful attempt at this amazing sicknerio by toosicktoocare!  
> https://toosicktoocare.tumblr.com/post/170768736649/assistantboss-sicknario
> 
> I also want to dedicate this OS to taylor_tut, the most amazing Beef Mom out there, for being very nice and a constant inspiration! (that's also thanks to her that I discovered this sicknario so y'know, credit where credit's due)
> 
> JFC when will I learn to respect my prompts
> 
> smol AU with Fran and Flo friendship which sounds waaaaay too shippy to my taste

There are empty days, and there are full and busy days at college. Today is one of the busiest days they’ve got in ages, as they browse a hundred books a day in hope to find what they need for that one thesis his training period magister is writing. When everyone thinks he’s being a slave, François doesn’t think so: each book he opens up is a book he’ll probably remember when his time to write his thesis comes around. For now, he simply browses books, trying to find which one will suit his magister best. It’s simpler than it sounds, really.

He considers himself lucky that the magister lets his door open for them to chat easily. François really enjoys speaking with him: they share most of their opinions on literature, view on people, etc. He even got behind the magister’s Parisian façade, as soon as he spilled his cup of coffee on the ground and got help for cleaning.

 

The young trainee quickly glances at the half-opened the door, only to see the taller man drowning between two piles of books (he’s starting to feel guilty: he’s the one who found and brought those to him), then gets back to reading. He’s found some more books on Aragon which could be of some interest…

“François?” a familiar voice calls for him.

“Yeah?”

“Are you cold?”

 

Curious, if not puzzled, François gets up from his spot and walks to the door, only to see his magister leaning against the door frame, now that the door is fully opened. The latter seems like he’s freezing on the spot, desperately clutching his arms together in an attempt to heat up (he guesses so, at least? He’s not cold at all, and he’s in a plain shirt when his superior is wearing a sweater). Aside from that, he looks alright. And aside from the dark rings under his eyes, but that’s a given when you work a ton in a few days.

“No, why?” is all François asks.

 

His magister, a tall brown-haired man with a three-day beard and huge glasses, frowns and looks away. His hands seem to dig even deeper inside the tight embrace of his arms, clawing the fabric for even an ounce of warmth.

“Huh, this is weird. I cannot get warm, for some reason,” he replies. “Well, this is a minor thing. We need to get back to work, François.”

He turns his back to him, heading to his office, as his subordinate desperately try to keep him back.

“But…”

The frown intensifies as the magister glances to his trainee.

“I said, we need to get back to work.”

 

Usually, François is assertive. He obeys. But this time, as his training period master walks back into his office, he follows through, feeling himself frown. This isn’t normal. His “boss”, if he can call the other teacher so, isn’t doing as well as he would like him to think. So he follows. The pit in his stomach is not stopping him. The pinch of his heart doesn’t stop him either. So he follows.

He’s seen this office before. It’s pretty classic, with a wooden floor, wooden furniture, somewhere to hang hats, coats, gloves, scarfs on. A desk covered in books and paper sheets. The magister sits down in his chair again.

 

“You’re sick?” the trainee eventually asks, glancing over the book to see the tired face of the professor in the room.

He shakes his head as he sinks deeper into his chair, exhaling feebly.

“No, I am not. Do not worry for me.”

 

Now he doubts that statement. François creeps behind the professor and puts a hand on his forehead. There is a familiar warmth under his fingers, a warmth which is usually his, but for once he gets to be the one who serves a living thermometer. As unprecise as it would be.

“You’re sick!” he yells in the middle of the office. He’s trying his hardest to sound angry, no matter how hypocritical he’s being, but all he ends up doing is sounding worried. Which he is. And which he shouldn’t be.

“I am fine, François, really… Don’t stress over it…”

“No, you’re sick! You have a fever, Florian!”

 

_…did he just say his first name out loud like that?_

_Did he just do that?!_

_He’s not supposed to do that!! He’s supposed to call him Sir, right?!_

 

“I-I meant sir!! Prof Moinot, you’re sick, you’ve got a fever!!” François blurts out in high-pitched screams.

All Mr Moinot does is rub his head.

“Please calm down, François… I’ve already told you that you could call me by my first name, I don’t want that stupid hierarchy between us… Now please spare me your yelling because I’ll actually get a headache from those…”

 

The young man tries his hardest at calming down: breathe in, breathe out, resume with where he was before. After a few seconds, he’s back to a somewhat normal stature.

“Ahem… As I said, you have a fever, sir.

“That’s Florian for you,” the prof snaps back. “I also happen to have work, so while I appreciate your solicitude, I would like to…”

 

He looks up. François isn’t listening to him, at least not to his excuses, as he glances around the room, then points out the couch next to a small bookshelf.

“Look,” he says, “let’s give you medicine and let you take a small break, okay? I’m your assistant, lemme do my job, m’kay? Take a nap and we’ll see when you wake up.”

 

Florian raises an eyebrow. The usually assertive, submissive trainee is ordering him around like he was a bad child. A smirk creeps on his face. It amuses him so much, in fact, he’s going to do just that. He gets up from his chair and goes to lie down on the couch, grabbing his coat to serve as a blanket on his way there.

François can barely believe what he’s seeing. His boss has just accepted to go to sleep because he told him too. That’s surrealist! Is he dreaming? He would slap himself was he not taken by the situation and worried. Instead, he goes to get some ibuprofen (he can take it, despite his haemophilia) in his bag (he would lie if he said he never got headaches from working intensely), a glass of water and gives it to the older teacher.

Barely minutes after, Mr Moinot is completely out, snoring.

 

The trainee sighs in relief. That was much more stressful than he had thought it would be. Now that that’s out of the way, he goes on to work on whatever Mr Moinot was doing. Turns out it’s mostly taking notes on books in order to have a sooth writing once he turns out his computer. François exhales again: this is going to be easier than he thought, so he sits down in the boss’s chair, turns once or twice on himself just because it’s funny, and starts his work.

Now if only Florian’s desk wasn’t entirely set up for a right-handed writer, that would be nice. Instead, he’s stuck with a tiny space for his actual writing hand. Moving a few books here and there should help…

 

The clock keeps ticking as he hears more and more coughing from his left. A few glances here and there, the only times he even breaks his focus, make him notice the shivers get more and more regular and the flush eats out his face more and more. Each time he looks, François feels his heart sink a little deeper, worry bubbling down his veins. He hates seeing his friend like this.

Did he just think they were friends? _Man, they must be closer than he thought._

 

Eventually, time to go home gets around. That’s when François hears a wet cough sound and sees his workmate right next to him. He looks like shit.

“Did… did you do all of the work…?” he croaks out before coughing.

“Not all of it, but most of it, I guess… Don’t worry, all you need is to get home to your bed and rest!”

The younger man shines him his brightest, worried grin. He gets up from his chair, the prof already dressed in his coat and scarf.

“Yeah, let’s go home…”

 

As they go downstairs, François watches carefully for his magister not to fall in the stairs.

“Say,” the latter asks, “do you have a way to go home…? It’s already late around here…” Another cough rattles his chest.

“Usually I take the subway,” he replies, “but you sound like you’re the one who’s gonna need some help with that. I’ve got my driver’s licence, I can drive you home with your car.”

“I’m not against that…”

“I’ll just have to go back home from there. That’s no big deal.”

 

Florian’s face emerges from his brown scarf.

“Please be our guest, François…! I’m sure my wife won’t mind having you around…”

The trainee stops in his tracks, looks back at his magister, his face conflicted between happiness and concern.

“Really?”

Florian beams him a small smile.

“Of course… Now, if you don’t mind, can we get back as soon as possible…? She’s going to worry for me…”

“Obviously!”

 

They hurry back to the car and drive off.


End file.
